Poems by Alexsondra Tomasulo 2017

Alexsondra TomasuloALEXSONDRA TOMASULO has been writing on her personal and intimate journeys for a few decades.  Her scope includes grief, depression, forgiveness, transformation and redemption. She loves poetry, short stories and essays. She is also an accomplished ceramic artist. Alexsondra now, after the loss of her beloved husband, has found a new rhythm in the art of play as it relates to each artistic endeavor. She resides on the coast of Maine.

The Verdict

the bleak burdensome days

now having taken their toll

the body displays the soul

as the mind searches for ways

to exit the prison or ease the pain

of this anguish and torment

the end must be near so dark are the hues

I must face the verdict and pay the dues

I pray that my demons may all fall silent

What is that light that flickers for me

as if ushering in the message of hope

limbs now weakening no longer able to cope

does it possess the power to alter my destiny

I will sit here then pondering my past

turning over pages now tattered and frayed

reading the passages I never obeyed

with one last thought, how long will this last

The Gift

the gift given, the gift received

has more to do with

what is believed

cupped hands offer, cupped hands accept

magnetically meeting

in love and respect

this is the point of no return

with bowed heads in silence

and much to learn

moment of peace, moment of grace

temple of divinity

created oneness of space

the gift given, the gift received

has more to do

with what is believed

Twin Flames

his hand pressed through flesh to heart

burning wounds explode apart

trust begins in humbled awe

divine spark in the raw

twin flames encircling each other

man nor god will ever smother

existing before time and space

meet again restoring Grace

parted in flesh again for a spell

silent of the death knell

never unwatched nor severed be

continuous love blessed by Thee

The Poet

The poet sits with morning coffee

thoughts dancing in her head, sometimes

like children jumping off swings

light and carefree

other times like hand grenades

baring truth to thousands

of war torn children

and what comes forth

is an acknowledged collaboration

between mind and spirit

though pithy, comedic or soulful

that poem rises from the depths

of the intestines,

having been churned about

no embellishments necessary

each letter strung in unison

hand painted, transcending the mundane

yet never leaving it out altogether

consider the importance of a chair?

the poem calls to others, or anyone for that matter

in need of healing, comforting, and awakening

while the poet is humbly aware that

she writes for an audience of one

and the only commandment

is to love oneself authentically

the rambling of flowers

I was going to tell you about my love of red Poppies

and how brilliant their beauty, almost too great to absorb

commanding your attention but in the most gentle of ways

perhaps that is why their bloom is so fleeting

but then the Rose spoke to me,

reminding me of the days I struggled to pull her roots from the ground

as I hated the bloody chore of pruning

and how she steadfastly persevered, longing to be a witness of love

up close and personal against the wall of my house.

the sweet lily-of-the-valley made their delicate voices heard

in memory of the first garden I was granted

in the kingdom of my back yard where I reigned as princess,

gardener, and master mud pie maker

I confess to not serving my astilbe

benignly neglected in the shade

now whispering words of forgiveness

and my wonderful hollyhocks

standing so high in pinks and blues

her delightful songs spilling forth

to the less noble

though many consider it a weed,

the dandelion, in it’s tickly yellow,

giggles me wishes made with my mother

long back, before the troubles of the world were heard

so many flowers each with distinct gifts

each so generous in their teaching

having no personal desire,

no will nor ego, they exist to exist

their offering has been paid for

by surrendering to their essence .

The Mark

In the beginning days

as a sculptor

I searched for  symbols

that would unite,

leaving no one outside.

each piece was heavily laden

 with markings from every religion 

and spiritual practice I could find.

my desire was strong,

believing if only I could create 

one piece containing

an imprint for everyone,

they  might be able to see the oneness.

But symbols have energy,

pushing people to and from

their comfort zones.

symbols are not static,

they evolve in their meaning

as humans require them to. 

I have been spurned

for using the Ankh

at a christian art sale

as if it were some secret sign of evil destruction

I have been looked down upon 

for carving the star of David on the crucifix 

as if Jesus wasn’t a Jew

and eyes did rise when

having carved an Ouroboros

on a chalice for celebration

as if the renewal of life 

was something saved for the select few

Yes, symbols have an energy

they create clubs with specific definitions

they create community

giving us comfort and guidance

but they also divide 

infusing us with arrogance and fear

imagine, the impact of one intangible mark.

will it unify or  alienate?

both, is the answer.

and simply the awareness of that

is enough

Without the wind

the earth would be scorched.

 all meaningful travel would cease.

wishes made on dandelions 

would be unable to reach their source, 

dropping downward 

in a hopeless state.

and no more 

could we marvel 

at the mighty eagle

riding the heavenly currents.

of course gone would be the monsoons

 typhoons, tornadoes and blizzards.

and that would be, nice, say some.

consider the thoughts

a lover sends across continents

yes, even mind travel would cease, 

without the wind

oh how the wind plays her part,

abundant in her many faces.

no type casting for her.

without the wind

there would be no

 languishing on beaches,

her gentleness easing

 the dog days of summer.

without the wind,

never would thousands

be left homeless from her rage.

She makes no deals

as nothing in nature does

she wants only that which we all want

to be loved unconditionally.

the rotting egg sulphur sour

mingling with the rose roots

lovers under covers rest

divinely blest

Beginning the day

morning coffee complete
with fluorescent golden turmeric
his earthy fragrance anchors me
to the day
while cinnamon, mingling in the same vessel
infuses her sweetness
that I may dance with the gods
together the lines of tragic memories
are softened


Like an accordion

opening, closing

subject to it’s master’s will

taking hold of one point on a star

and laying it on a sandy beach

walking to your destination

yet never reaching it

yearning to connect

two dissolve into one

love filled exhalations

swiftly transported to war zoned babies

decluttering my inner temple

I make room for you

Undefined Soulmates

she waited for his glance
knowing that was all it would take.
the room crowded
with tuxedoed dudes
prancing about with taffeta clad fillies
clinging to their arms
had no effect on this one
scruffy ill dressed cowboy
who meandered through
the well groomed glitter
confident of every gift he possessed
She, too, stood in confidence
her voluptuous body
giving way to long ivory fingers
Her well designed legs created
elegant shadows against the polished floor
She was the undeniable queen of the event
and then as if orchestrated by the gods themselves
a ray of sunshine splashed across her face
as the cowboy sauntered forth to greet her
it was love at first sight,
which the haughty know nothing about
yet they danced the night away on gossamer wings
while the queen and the cowboy
remained enmeshed in their gift.

Igniting The Now

It arrived on the anniversary

of my husband’s passing.

I wore it every day

for precisely one month,

each bead had been

intuitively chosen for me,

citrine, amethyst,rose quartz and more.

Yesterday it changed,

though I’m certain

it wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed.

Why hadn’t I noticed

the string was fraying?

How did I miss the beginning breath

of the apple blossom bud,

now threatening to burst forth

in all of it’s sweetness?

Totally unable am I

to recall the exact moment

my own flesh surrendered to old age,

no longer elastic and supple.

Now with expectant eyes

on the coming of the forsythia,

brilliantly offering the

gateway to enlightenment,

so too, will I miss the last grey crust of snow,

forgetting to offer my goodbyes of gratitude.

Is this the nature of change

to move so slowly as to ease the edges

of our perceptions

reminding us that all of nature

is a continuous symphony

never ceasing for one nano second

creating crystal crescendos,

and rose petal pianissimos

while meditating on the present

I sway between expectations

and melancholy memories

the bud blossoms

as each bead slips through my fingers

proclaiming the change

Not Enough Stars In The Sky

If only it would remain

light throughout

the night

then dirty secrets would

be laid bare, and the child

would be safe

from monsters who

by day were

those she loved

if only it would remain

light in the subways underground

then dirty secrets would

be laid bare, and the child

would be safe

from the gropers and molesters

disregarding her Catholic uniform

But darkness will come either

by nature or man

as she stays awake till

first light, waiting

for safety and her beloved to return.

Someone once said,

“the only thing we have to fear,

is fear itself.”

The girl thought this a haughty

and privileged statement.

Yet now, when the power goes out

she’s enveloped in a

peaceful pitch black,

without even

the light of the moon

nor the hum of electricity and she floats

into the depths

of silence only the angels know.

She still prefers a nightlight to keep

the shadows at bay.

Never Lost

How do I find my way home

the forest has grown thick

with new and unfamiliar layers

Does the name “forest” even remain?

Memories of a soothing light

golden, if that name is correct

perhaps honey like

almost tangible, yet not.

If I could see but a sliver

I would quickly wrap myself

in it’s never ending tendrils

but I fear there are mini disconnects

like the neon neurons of my mind

groping desperately for the name of my first born

or where I laid my glasses last, or first for that matter

What? You say sit down and wait

Who are you?

I am the voice of voices

the soloist and the ensembles

and you are the stars and the moon and the sky

traveling always with the sacred umbilical cord.

Coming To Self

What is a fork in the road,
other than a pinpoint
when one faces self.
Is it opportunity
calling you forward?
Or does the suction of distrust
pull you within a self created prison?
All choices are yours.
There is the fourth choice,
to simply sit,
gathering information with your heart.
Miraculously, there is no wrong choice,
you are in a win/win seat of authority,
custom designed and divinely crafted.
There is but one golden tunnel
whose Light connects all.
Rejoice in your journey.

Who’s Listening Anyway

deep crimson
coursed through her veins
percolating years of torment
she even wore it daily
in her gypsy like clothes
hoping people would
hear her cries
little did she know
her bellows were at a decibel
imperceivable to those around her
she wandered through her years
longing to be heard in the colors of her mind
no easy task in this sea of sedated hues
she might have hired an interpreter
but who would she rely on?
Stepping into trust
was stepping into a quagmire of green slime
oh how she admired those
wearing the neutrals,
perhaps with a touch of white
you know the ones.
they parade into a room
all proper and bland
yet people turn to listen
as they speak without authenticity
not a red drop of their own intimate world
yet people accept them
and why not?
none or their washed out words
give rise to any disturbance or discomfort.
as daffodils remain yellow and rocks flat grey.

Secret Sunrises

are the ones that wait patiently

while you grieve your beloved

they are the ones

whose hope shines more brightly for the starving and the lost

they hold steady their position on high

behind the cold grey winter’s sky

never receiving a drop of gratitude for their loyalty

but then there is the day when you look out

seeing the world drenched in golden possibilities

promises of tomorrows

your chest full and proud.

both bowing your head in forgiveness

and yielding to her invitation,

she whispers her secrets

as you dance amid the daffodils.